


Unstoppable

by Anonymous



Category: Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Mentions of intoxication, Pining, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:32:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the course of five years of filming <i>Merlin,</i> Colin realises he's fucked up his beginnings and middles with Bradley, so he puts all his efforts towards rewriting their end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unstoppable

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the September 22 LJ merlinrpf community challenge, inspired (very loosely, and in a roundabout way) by the sentiments behind [ this prompt at kmm](http://kinkme-merlin.livejournal.com/35615.html?thread=38701343#t38701343) and Alby Mangroves [lovely fest banner](http://archiveofourown.org/works/945299), which hit me right in the feels.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: All lies. Not for profit. No harm intended. Full of tropes that I'm sure have been done better elsewhere, but that I hope have at least been recombined here in pleasing ways.

**~ 20 September, 2013 ~**

'Where do we start, Colin? _How?'_

'Ehm. Says dice the carrot and onion fine, then – ' Sensing Bradley's stillness, Colin glances over and sees he isn't asking about the meal. He's got a carrot in his fist, but he's just staring through it. There are shadows beneath his eyes, a weary set to his shoulders. He looks lost.

Colin straightens up. He's been mauling the toasted cumin seed in a mortar, holding the doorstop of a magazine open with one elbow. The pages are glossy and stiff. He positions the heavy pestle across them to mark the recipe and turns to face Bradley. They've been dancing round this on the phone, in their skype sessions, for months now. As when they'd worked together, they always come to a point where they're fed up with the discussing and prefer to _do,_ to try, to act as if such-and-such were so and see what comes of it. 

It had worked well for Merlin and Arthur. But for Colin and Bradley? Colin's not sure how much longer they can get away with it, can sense heavy discussion looming in the lines of Bradley's face, the way he's got his weight balanced forward, as if deciding between flight and face-planting onto the worktop.

Colin wants to be brave, but he wants Bradley to stay even more.

'Begin at the beginning,' he says, shrugging, 'and go on 'til we come to the end. Then stop. Simple.'

Bradley stares through _him_ for a moment, and that feels like dying; then his lips scrunch and spread into a smile. And that feels… _oh yes, fecking still._

'Is that Carroll?' Bradley says.

'Yep.'

'You're quoting the Red Queen at me?'

'King of Hearts, actually. And yep. Which makes you the White Rabbit.'

Bradley shakes his head, clucks his tongue, but the smile's spread to his eyes. 'You wound me, Colin. Truly.' He tosses the carrot onto the worktop with a snort. 'Tell you one thing though, bet I’d be handy with a pocket watch. Do you remember that sack of yo-yos Rupert found in… '

_Yes,_ Colin thinks as Bradley relaxes into the tale, leaning back against the kitchen wall, shaping the story with his hands even before the words come out. The answer will always be yes. 

He remembers everything. Beginning at the beginning.

* * *

**2008-2012**

**~ Charm ~**

Colin tries to be humble and hardworking. He _is_ humble and hardworking; he comes from humble, hardworking people. Manners run deep in his family, deeper than politics. But.

He also comes from a bit of cheek. He comes from generations who smiled defiantly, even as they got on with things, and he's steeped in the knowledge that sometimes it's better to keep your knuckles un-dusted and your teeth in your head and slay your enemy – instead – with story and song. With _charm._

It stands him well enough in Armagh, Dungannon, and Belfast, then blossoms in the gritty freedom of Glasgow. It deserts him in London at first – he's never felt more of a gape-mouthed culchie, and it's hard to charm anyone when they won't meet his eye – but he works through it. He spends hours riding the tube or wandering about, hood up and earbuds in, watching, learning, letting the likes of Ben Gibbard and Kele Okerere fuel that dark, glittering core that tells him he was born to do this, to make people sit there in the dark and fall in love with all his wise fools and broken dolls.

When London proves him right – the theatre-going portion, at any rate – Colin starts to push the limits of where charm can take him. He gets away with things he never could back home. He gets his ego stroked, drinks bought for him, favours given. He gets his heart a little sweaty over forbidden fruit – inevitably older, wiser, and bound by promises to others – and his prick sucked by people whose names he doesn't know.

He also gets put in his place.

One night, after too much beer and liquor – enough so that he forgets all his dad taught him about pacing a session and not shitting where you eat – he has a 'misunderstanding' with one of the Young Vic's patrons in the loos at the Cut Bar. He counts himself lucky to escape with his face, let alone his fledgling professional reputation, and decides to stick with being humble, hardworking… and mostly sober.

As the days roll on and his star gains a bit of shine, he acknowledges that his ambitions come with a price. That, given his personality and the nature of his desires, he's in for a lot of lonely nights, of never being truly intimate with anyone except on stage or in front of a camera, where – whether they know it or not – they will have his all. All he can afford to give.

Then comes _Merlin._

Then comes Bradley. 

After their first couple of meetings Colin decides that they will work well together – will maybe even be amazing – but will never be great friends. And despite being generically fit and having a voice you could spread on toast, Bradley is different enough from Colin (and Colin's usual fare) not to spark any wildfires.

It's all good. It's all _grand._ His heart will remain safe and dry as a stone while his career sails onward. He'll be working with Richard Wilson and Anthony Head, and he'll finally be earning enough to start paying back his family's faith in him.

Then comes Bradley in Colin's eye line nigh on twenty-four-seven eight months of the year and ohjesuschrist and fecking _hell._

With each slash and thrust of a prop sword – each roar of triumph, each laugh, each rambling anecdote, giddy cartwheel or snatch of song – Colin knows he's made a terrible miscalculation. Bradley may not be his type, but he is… He is a very warm, very bold, very _compelling_ case for broadening one's horizons. 

He is also completely off-limits, if Colin's sticking to his code. As ignoring Bradley isn't an option, Colin take deep breaths and dials up the charm, spreads it round the set in the hopes it will buffer him from accusations of favouritism. From anyone sussing the fact that he might be falling, horribly, in love.

**~ Slice ~**

There are times Colin wonders what Bradley really makes of him, gets the impression that he rubs him the wrong way. But he's always there, always watching, touching, _involving_ himself in ways that catch Colin off guard. Brilliant insights tossed out in rehearsals; bits of flattery during interviews – and as Bradley never sugar-coats his opinions, Colin feels the sincerity of his praise, squirms under it, lets it heat his cheeks. Bradley has got an unshakable faith that this work they're doing is no one-off, that if the writers really go for it, they are truly going to be legend. _The_ Merlin and Arthur.

Or Arthur and Merlin, as Bradley would put it.

He comes banging down Colin's door late one night when they're filming in France, script furled in his fist, saying, 'Look, mate, about earlier… ' and Colin has to have a poke round his memory banks because they are _long_ days and 'earlier' could mean Bradley nicking the last of the perfect grassy just-yellow bananas or calling Colin's toes spindly or irritating creative and costume so much they were snapping at everyone by lunchtime.

Bradley pushes his way in, toes the door closed behind him. 

'I'm not here to scene steal. You know I'm not. But I am here for Arthur. I am here to _fight for_ Arthur, for his story arc, because that is what he would do, yeah? And I have too much respect for him, for all our work together – for you – _not_ to speak up when they try and pull shit that feels… shitty. So I won't apologise for rocking the boat, but I am sorry if you're getting caught up in the froth and I wanted you to know that it wasn't about me angling for more screen time or anyth– '

Bradley breaks off abruptly, eyes gone wide. Colin knows what he's seeing – or thinks he's seeing. Colin is only in a vest and shorts. He's sweaty. His face is no doubt flushed, and his laptop's on the bed, angled away from the door.

'Um, Colin?' The script arm lowers, as do his eyes, raking down Colin's body until he catches himself, startles. 'Sorry. Why did you…? You should have told me to piss off. I'll just do that. Go. I'll – '

'Downward dog,' Colin says, face flaming now, but knowing Bradley's embarrassment is about to be worse. 'I was only trying a bit of yoga, trying to stretch out my back.'

Bradley laughs so hard he bumps his head on the door, nearly knocks over the floor lamp with his flailing script.

'Ow,' he wheezes. 'Dammit, Colin, how do you do that?'

Colin darts forward, steadying the lamp and shifting it out of range. 'Do what?'

'Leave me with carrot stump.'

'Ehm.' Colin peers at Bradley, takes a whiff to see if he's been drinking by any chance. 'Do I want to know?'

Bradley grins, still giggling a bit. He rolls his script even tighter and taps Colin's chest with it. 'Like in that old cartoon, where the hero is fencing for his life only to realise he's holding a carrot. That it's being whittled down by his opponent's sword, slice by flying slice, until there's nothing left but – '

'Carrot stump,' Colin cuts in, realising that they are standing very close, and without all their usual layers of costume. Realising that Bradley is breathing heavily and staring at Colin's chest, of all the things. 'Limp greens. All very silly and useless. I see.'

'Do you?' Bradley says, so quietly Colin doubts he would have heard if they hadn't been toe to toe. He lifts his gaze, and suddenly it is Colin who is having trouble breathing.

'Bradley,' he says, stepping back, glancing away. 'Look – '

'No, you look.' Bradley chucks his script on the chair and catches Colin by the shoulders. 'On the train here, the first time, remember? The team Merlin singsong and iPod swap?'

Colin closes his eyes, groaning. 'Oh god don’t remind me.' 

Angel and Katie had brought rather a lot of wine, convinced Colin that the occasion was worthy of celebration – all of Camelot going to its castle at last. Upon his discovery of Adam and the Ants' 'Prince Charming' on Bradley's iPod, Colin had nearly pissed himself laughing. He remembers nudging Bradley at odd moments throughout the trip, menace-whispering, 'Don't you ever stop being dandy, showing me you're handsome.'

'I will do,' Bradley insists, giving Colin a squeeze. 'It was perfect, Cols. Don’t know what was in that wine, but I finally understood your weird mutterings, you laughed at all my jokes, and we beat the pants off everyone at Snap.'

'Was that Snap we were playing then?' Colin peeks, sees that Bradley is in dead earnest, that that's what counts as a red letter day in his world: a tipple with mates in the Chunnel, a singsong and a pack of cards.

'Mmm. Some version, anyway. And your face, mate, when they first took us to see the castle, it was… wow.'

Colin frowns, remembering. 'You made some shitty comment about the War, about Irish not being welcome.'

'Only because Katie caught me staring.' Bradley shrugs. 'I've been told I shouldn't mix wine and _feelings._ Turns me into a pig.'

'Oh, you do have feelings then?'

'Lots.' Bradley nods. 'Lots. A lot. Buckets of 'em. I just, you know, am good at hiding them. Fabulous actor, me.'

'Well done you,' Colin says to the carpet. He looks up at Bradley through his lashes. 'What do you think you might have said though, if you hadn't turned into a pig?'

Bradley blinks, huffs out a breath, rubs his thumbs against Colin's skin. He tugs him closer. 'What I _should_ have said was, "Hey, Colin, guess what: today I just realised I don't want to live in a world that doesn’t include your shiraz and stale crisp breath, your bouncing left knee and, most of all, your Christmas face," and left the lot of you to have a howl at my expense.'

'Curious.' Colin lifts his head, meets Bradley's gaze. 'But sweet. Tell me, Bradley, is this how you woo all your mates?'

Bradley lets go of one of Colin's shoulders, trails his fingertips along a collarbone, presses the notch at the base of his throat. Colin swallows, watches Bradley track the movement with his eyes.

'No,' he says, shaking his head. 'No, Colin. This is not like all my mates. This is not like _any._ '

There is a moment when Colin feels sure they are going to kiss, where Bradley is leaning in and Colin's entire body is alive and _wanting_ under those fingers, but at the last instant he clocks the troubled expression on Bradley's face and pulls him into a hug instead.

'Hey,' he says, closing his eyes because he's now got Bradley in his nostrils and his arms, is holding him, being squeezed by him, can feel all the places where he is hard and soft, so sight is no longer necessary. Might actually prove fatal. 'Hey now. You mean the world to me too. I hope you know that. Couldn’t have asked for a better Arthur.'

Bradley hums something into his neck, one hand drifting low on Colin's back, rubbing firm circles there. Colin wonders if it is meant in innocence, in kindness given his earlier comment about his back, or if Bradley knows what he's about. What he is doing to Colin.

Then – _fecking shite_ – it must be very apparent what he is doing to Colin, because Colin's erection is pressing against Bradley's hip. When Colin realises that he's not the only one, that Bradley is hard in a place he wasn't a moment ago, he wants nothing more than to shove him onto the bed, new laptop and Bradley's potential sexual identity crisis be damned, and rut against him. To fuck into his hand or between his perfect thighs, to fill his own throat with Bradley's cock and find out if he roars or laughs or comes quietly, if he'd let Colin slip a finger in his arse, let him kiss him down there where he's ripe and tender or even…

_Oh god._

Then, after, he'd have to deal with the panic, both Bradley's and his own. Trying to keep things hidden while the passion runs hot, trying to remain professional when it cools. Trying to remember lines and be emotionally available in scenes when he knows what Bradley sounds like when being rimmed, what he sounds like when he's backing away, making excuses like, 'Heat of the moment,' 'Not really my thing,' and 'Better this way.'

Colin shivers. He doesn't let go, but he loosens his grip. 'But,' he says, the word sounding like the cheap weapon it is, even to his own ears. 'Bradley, I don't think… I mean, while we're working. Let's not spoil the magic, okay?'

It is, admittedly, the lamest thing he's ever said. _Ever._

Bradley groans into Colin's shoulder, bangs his forehead against it a few times before pulling back. Colin is shocked to see that he is smiling though, that there's no trace of panic or confusion, no embarrassment over the erection that is tenting his joggers. He notes, before he can stop himself, that Bradley pulls to anatomical left.

'Fine,' Bradley says. 'Have it your way for now, Goody Two Shoes. But I will have _this._ '

He grabs Colin's face and kisses him on the mouth. Once, twice. No tongue, but his lips are parted, and Colin can feel the damp heat of his breath. Then he snatches up his script and walks out the door, leaving Colin holding the metaphorical carrot stump.

**~ Dazzle ~**

Their relationship changes over the course of the show, stretches long, stretches thin. But just like the iconic blond seventies toy – one of which now perches bandy-legged and stoic in his window box on Colin's bookshelves, courtesy of a fan, and yes he's more than aware of the irony of Stretch Armstong's passing resemblance to Bradley – always returns to the same shape again.

They are more than mates, but not quite family. Close, but not always on the same page, let alone working off the same script. 

There are more kisses along the way, more times when Colin is pissed and randy or Bradley is fed up with the shambles _Merlin_ has made of his private life. Bradley lets Colin flirt shamelessly without holding him to account in the morning. Colin lets Bradley rage until he's broken with it, lets him hide out in Colin's room and pretend he's not been crying, lets him fall asleep with his head in Colin's lap or curled behind him on the bed. No questions asked.

They get so, no matter how far they drift apart, they can still finish one another's thoughts, calm the other with a look, cause laughs with less than that, and nap practically anywhere, in any situation. Yet there is always this final boundary between them. Like, as the Death Cab song goes, brothers on a hotel bed. 

Except that is a song about endings. It's about lovers who've run their course, changed beyond all desire for one another, and if Colin's honest he'll admit that that's not how it is for him, not by a long mile. He _wants_ Bradley, at times with a passion that terrifies him. He laughs at his twenty-two-year-old self's casual dismissal, his certainty that the likes of Bradley would never tempt him, that his own desires were far too complex and sophisticated.

Over the years he's played out so many fantasies in the privacy of his own room, his own head; he should be weary of them. But he's not. On the rare occasions when he indulges with other people – anonymous pricks through holes in anonymous walls, anonymous hands in dark corners of obscure clubs, and once or twice a trusted and deeply closeted fuckbuddy from drama school – Colin's left physically sated but mentally a wreck. He feels faithless to someone he's never made promises to, and a fecking hypocrite to boot. 

He eventually gives up cruising, as it feels too risky with the show's success. He loses his mate to a litre of vodka and a one-way flight off the Kingston Bridge the week before his marriage, his fiancée and family none the wiser. Colin is allowed time off for the funeral. He tells no one the truth, not even Richard, but when he returns to France he goes down on his knees in Compiègne, in St. Jacques; he lights a votive, makes promises to a one-armed statue of Saint Joan – because whatever the real story, she's one of the few saints he'd go for a tea with – and fixes his sights firmly on Bradley, waiting for the right moment.

He watches from his chair in France, tucked in close to the shadow of a wall. He watches on set in Wales, and in the forests of Gloucestershire. He watches out of the corner of his eye on planes and trains, in darkened theatres and in front of screaming roomfuls of fans. 

When it becomes crystal clear that _Merlin_ will be ending, full stop, and he's no closer to telling Bradley that he thinks his own way is shite – that he'd got it all wrong, that Bradley might be it for him – Colin starts to panic. He leans in just that bit more, lets their elbows and knees brush together, lets his hands linger. 

He knows Bradley isn’t exactly free, that he's had various flings and this rolling start-and-stop thing with Georgia over the course of the show, but he's survived by telling himself it's all been a stop-gap. He can’t bear the thought that they're coming up on an _actual_ ending. That, by not returning that first kiss with interest, by not following Bradley back to his room and confessing all, he's doomed himself to a purgatory where Bradley will trust him for life – will keep in touch and cheer him on in his career, will probably invite him to his wedding – but will never again look at Colin like he's meat and potatoes, water and ale, air, sunshine and sweets all rolled into one. 

When Bradley puts his fecking all and then some into those last scenes between Arthur and Merlin, goes all quiet and prickly between takes, then touches Colin in scene in ways that aren't in the script, Colin's panic flares into something unavoidable. Bradley is really saying goodbye, and he's leaving it all in the work, all professional, just like Colin wanted.

In his desperation Colin considers going to Richard or Angel – or even Katie – but he rings his mam instead, because she's had a soft spot for Bradley since the first time she visited the set. He'd organised several of the cast and crew to serenade her with the Four Tops' 'Bernadette,' even gone down on his knee at the end, Colin's dad having a right howl at the sight. That had been back when Bradley still fancied his chances of wearing Colin down, back when Katie had claimed all the world could see he was acting like a wooing man, and there had been lots of serious discussions behind closed doors about privacy and careers and family television, not to mention what would happen to her beloved tiger if she didn’t watch her mouth.

Colin's mam sighs a lot. She tells him he's been a fool to try and keep his heart out of the mix. She tells him to calm himself, that she's glad to hear she didn’t raise a tin man, that he needs to talk to Bradley. That he can't expect miracles at this stage, but where there's love and truth, there's always room for hope.

Colin hedges his bets by talking sideways to Eoin first, from whom he finds out that things with Georgia are both more serious and less happy than he'd realised, that there are ultimatums on the table and Bradley's not been sleeping well. He asks Eoin what he thinks would make Bradley happy, what it would take to make him want to stay.

Eoin's halfway through a tortured analogy involving wild stallions, knitting and those wee lizards that escape predators by leaving their tails behind when he pauses, throws back his head and laughs. 

'Whoa there, Mister Razzle Dazzle,' he says, lifting his hands, then slinging an arm round Colin's shoulders, leaning in so close Colin can feel his stubble. 'Who're we really talking about here? Cause if you've finally grown a pair, I might have some ideas.'

At the final wrap party Colin downs a large glass of something Eoin calls 'courage and strength; have to add your own magic, mate' and pulls Bradley into the bogs. He checks that they have the room to themselves before releasing Bradley's wrist. 

'I have something for you.'

Bradley's got a fleck of beer foam on his upper lip. Colin had pulled him away from nosing into a fresh pint. He smells about four hours post-shower, and it kills Colin that he knows these things about Bradley, knows all his bodily scents and how fast his hair grows, what his face looks like when it's nearing sleep but not where he'll be laying his head a week, a month, a year from now. That by then he may not have the right to ask.

Bradley looks him down and up, expectant, annoyed. 'Yeah? What is it?'

'Not now.'

'Colin, I don't see – '

'Not now, not here,' Colin rushes on. 'In a year's time, say. No, September. Anniversary of when we – when the show – first aired. In London, or wherever's clever.'

Bradley tilts his head, looks at Colin pityingly. 'Colin, what on _earth_ are you on about?'

'No, no,' Colin says, more to himself, thinking that it will have to be London, because he can hardly hop on a plane with it and – 

Colin feels a sudden warmth on his neck, clocks that it is Bradley's hand and sucks in a breath. 'Ehm, what?'

'Colin, do you have something for me or not?'

'Just promise me,' Colin blurts. 'September. I'll google the date, but you'll be there. At mine. No matter what happens in between.' He stops himself from adding, 'But please don’t go marrying anyone just yet.' 

Bradley curls his fingers around the back of Colin's neck, adds pressure. His breath flares his nostrils. 

'What's in it for me?'

Colin closes his eyes. 'Just _promise,_ Bradley. It'll be good, I swear. Fecking amazing. A right dazzle.' He hears Bradley huff in and out his nose a few more times like a fussy bull. A fussy bull wearing very nice aftershave.

'Fine,' he says. 'I promise. Now, while we've got the place to ourselves, kiss for luck? Last goodbye?'

'No!' Colin opens his eyes, grabs for Bradley's collar. 'That's the other thing. I want to kiss you for all sorts, but not that.'

'All sorts?' 

'You know, just… stuff. Happy Tuesday, got a seat on the tube, hurrah for lunch. Normal stuff. Everyda– '

This time there is plenty of tongue, but it's not frantic. It is slow, a bit sad in its thoroughness, both of them drawing it out. Bradley tastes of strawberry milk beneath his lager, and Colin knows his own mouth is astringent with gin. They are careful to keep their lower bodies apart; there is no groping except above the neckline, holding one another's heads, tracing familiar features.

'I know I've no right,' Colin whispers as they pull apart, 'but I want you to know you have options. That I never stopped – that I never even _started_ with you, not in all the ways I wanted.'

Bradley doesn’t say another word, just studies Colin for a long moment. Then he swallows. He kisses Colin's cheek, gives him a pat on the shoulder and walks back out into the party.

* * *

**~ 20 September, 2013 ~**

Between reminiscences, a bit of a food fight, and Colin spilling wine on the recipe, the meal preparations take longer than expected. It is half nine when they eschew Colin's handsome table of reclaimed oak (church pews, the man had said, which amuses Colin no end) and carry their bowls and glasses into the living room. When they'd set this up over the phone they'd made noises about watching an episode or two from the first series – well, Bradley had – but when Colin nods towards his rack of DVDs he waves a dismissive hand.

'Nah. Let's catch up on the now. I've been in meetings, want to run some names by you, see what you know. And I want to hear all about your new play.' He plunges his spoon into the stew, looks at the steaming chunks of veg a bit dubiously. 'Mojo. You know, Colin, you really need to do something with more than a single word for a title.' He blows on his spoonful, pops it in his mouth, makes a humming sound.

Colin waits until he gets the official thumbs-up before settling in with his own bowl. He realises he is starving, and for more than the food. This meal has been too long in coming.

'Ah, well, you see now, titular minimalism is the new black.'

Bradley swallows, thankfully, before spluttering, 'That doesn’t even make sense.'

'Sounded good though, didn’t it?'

And just like that they are off, just like at the start of filming rush or during the madness of press days, when they'd bounce from sheer inanities to heartfelt faster than anyone else could follow. 

Bradley spoons up huge gobs of stew but does most of the talking in between, so Colin finishes first. He has time to really study Bradley as he outlines his various options, the scripts his agent has sent his way, the connections he's been trying to forge. 

It's not like he's been a stranger since the show ended. They've got together a few times whenever Bradley was in London, skyped while he was abroad, but – unless Colin counts the backstage hugs or that one stolen, giddy kiss after the NTAs – they haven't been properly alone _and_ in the flesh at the same time.

Except around his eyes, Bradley actually looks younger, leaner. His forearms are still carrying a bit of a tan. He'd once said that America agreed with his body, but his soul belonged to Britain. Mocking, Katie had asked him what about his heart and Angel and Colin had chimed in with the usual response, that everyone knew Bradley didn't have one, that he'd sold it to the Devil to earn the part of Arthur.

'Wait here,' Colin says when Bradley's licked his spoon and set his bowl aside. 

Bradley lolls back on the sofa with a contented smile, wineglass propped on his stomach. 'Ooh, is it _finally_ time for my mystery gift then? Shall I close my eyes?'

'Yep. And no pee– I saw that! No peeking, I'm serious now.'

'This had better not be one of your sick pranks, Morgan. My sisters warned me, think I'm cracked for turning up, by the way, so you may have fooled Georgia, but my family know the truth, that you're a wily… Colin? Colin, you'd better not be stripping off and climbing inside a giant cake. 'Cause I have my phone right here and I'm not afraid to… '

It's slow going, as Colin doesn't want any sounds to give him away. When he's got everything set up in the kitchen – it has to be on the oak table, he decides, for reasons – he pads as quietly as he can back past a still-prattling Bradley and up the stairs to his bedroom loft. Loft sounds a bit ridiculous, actually, as it's the master suite, complete with its own toilet and a glassed-in balcony that looks out on the river. Colin sits on the edge of the bed, facing the stairs. He debates with himself over going back down for half a minute before deciding it's better this way. Bradley is owed his privacy for this, and Colin might not want to see his face.

He scrolls through his contacts, finds Bradley. Seconds later a tinny-sounding chant of 'AH-HA-EH-HA' erupts from down below. Colin realises with a jolt that it's Adam and the Ants, so he's not the only one who remembers everything, who surrounds himself with talismans of what they've shared because they haven't quite got around to forging something new.

'Colin?' Bradley calls out. 'Colin, what are you – I'm opening my eyes now, alright? Colin, are you actually – ' 

Bradley's words dissolve into laughter, which is suddenly happening on two fronts, echoing up from the living room and intimate in Colin's ear.

'Hullo Bradley,' Colin says.

'Colin, why are you ringing me from your – did you just go upstairs? Please tell me it's not hide and seek. You are such a loser if you made me wait a year to play hide and seek with you in your flat. Unless you really are naked. _Are_ you naked?' 

Colin stifles a nervous laugh, says, 'Go into the kitchen. Look on the table.'

'Okaaay.' 

Bradley's moving even as he speaks, so Colin adds a hasty, 'Come up after, when you're ready. If you want.' 

He rings off, waits with his mobile clutched to his chest. 

For a long time he hears nothing but the usual faint sounds of traffic on the Great West Road, the party boats out on the river. Then come more close-in noises: Bradley moving around in the kitchen; the cats next door, yowling for their supper; Colin's heart going a mile a minute. 

He sets his mobile aside and curls up on the bed. Waits. His thoughts drift. He fancies he can hear Bradley pacing below, imagines him clutching the pages of Colin's letter, glancing at the objects on the table, wondering what the hell he's supposed to do now that he knows the contents of Colin's gnarled little heart, has the evidence of his foolishness spread out before him…

He jerks awake, realising he's kipped off, and worries that Bradley simply made his choice and left. That he's overwhelmed, or thinks it's all too little too late, or heard Colin snoring and buggered off to find someone who could at least be bothered to fecking stay _awake_ whilst machinating grand declarations of love.

He sits up, rubbing his face, telling himself he should have known better. That he doesn't get to have this, because he's made his own deal with the Devil, and – 

There is a tread on the stairs, steady but soft. Colin looks up. Bradley's doused all the lights below except the ones that run along the stairs, like a landing strip. Colin can see that he is holding the sword – and he wants to cry, because it still looks so right in his hand – but it's not until he emerges into the soft glow of the bedroom lamps that Colin realises he's also barefoot. Which means…

Colin tries for a deep breath and fails, the air sticking in his throat.

'You know,' Bradley says softly as he pads towards the bed, 'to do the thing properly you really should have stripped off and climbed in the bath, handed it up to me from underwater.'

Colin stares, contemplates the scenario, grimaces. 'How was I meant to ring you from underwater?'

'You'd ring me before you went under. Naturally.'

'Then trust you to find me in time? I don’t think so.' Bradley's standing directly before him now, and he has to tilt his head back to look up at him. 'And I don't think bathing with swords is a good idea. Confined space, too much sharp edge in with the danglies.'

Bradley smiles as he takes a step back, lifts the sword and taps the flat of the blade to Colin's shoulders in turn.

'I dub thee Sir Colin, loyal weirdo, fellow actor man – and thief – extraordinaire.'

'Tch! Why d'you assume I stole it?'

'How else?'

'Bribery? Blackmail? _Magic?'_ Colin wiggles his fingers.

Bradley snorts. 'As if. Now _shush._ I wasn't finished.' Colin claps his hand over his mouth, looks steadily at Bradley. 

'In answer to your questions – ' He taps Colin again on each shoulder, then on the crown of his head, saying, 'I can. Me too. And yes, please, I would like that very much.'

Colin surges up from the bed so fast Bradley barely has time to whip the sword out of the way. 'Oi! Watch it. You're no good to me without your head!'

'I dunno,' Colin says, shrugging. 'You could still have a bit of fun.'

'Ugh! Colin, that's vile. If that's your idea of a chat-up line I take it back. Here – ' Bradley backs away, holding the sword at the ready, digging in his pocket with his left hand. He fishes out keys, _Colin's_ keys, the spare set Colin had left out on the kitchen table beside the sword.

That answers the last of Colin's questions. He stalks towards Bradley, grinning.

'I'll just leave these, shall I?' Bradley continues, brows lifted. 'No, no, stay where you are, you corpse-shagger. I'll show myself out.'

He glances over his shoulder, as if gauging the distance to the stairs.

Colin stops, puts his hands on his hips. 'Jesuschrist, Bradley will you please drop the sword and get over here so I can suck your cock?'

Bradley's mouth opens in a classic look of shock before curving into a goofy smile. 'Um. Yeah alright,' he says, tucking the keys back into his pocket. 

He looks around, crosses to a chair and lays the sword reverently across the arms murmuring, 'But he can't expect me to just to _drop_ you anywhere, can he, my darling?' as he starts unbuttoning his shirt.

'Bradley, are you talking to your sword?'

'Excalibur. It has a name, Colin.' 

Colin snorts. He shucks his own jumper and t-shirt then gets impatient, crowding up behind Bradley, reaching around to help with his jeans only to get distracted by skin. For all the times he's seen it, he's not sure he's ever pressed his own bare chest up against Bradley's back, flesh to flesh, and certainly never with this sort of intent. 

He pulls Bradley flush against him, tucking his face into the crook of his neck and inhaling. Bradley makes a humming sound, still struggling to push down his jeans. Colin lets go only long enough to yank them down off his thighs, then he palms Bradley's stomach, his hips, dips one hand into his pants and grasps his stiffening prick. 

Bradley's breath stutters. Colin kisses his shoulder, the back of his neck. He squeezes and strokes until Bradley's swaying back into him, letting him take a bit of his weight, pressing his arse against Colin's groin. 

'I should have gone after you,' Colin whispers. 'That night in France. It would have been worth it, whatever came next. You were always worth it. Was just too stupid to – '

'Ssh,' Bradley says, stilling Colin's hand and pulling it off his cock. 'Stop.'

He shuffles round so they are facing one another. 'Just stop,' he says, skimming his fingers over Colin's mouth, down his arms, rubbing the fuzz between his nipples. 'Stop rewinding, okay? That's the only way this is going to work.'

Colin takes a deep breath, nods.

Bradley leans in and gives him a kiss. It tastes of the meal they shared, of cumin and coriander. And garlic, just a little, because Colin insisted. 'Onward?' he whispers as he pulls back.

'Onward,' Colin agrees. They make quick work of their remaining clothes, then it is Bradley who takes charge, manhandling Colin over to the bed, squeezing shoulders and buttocks, groping between his thighs, muttering, 'God, Colin, you used to be so skinny. Where did you get all this lovely _meat?'_

Colin lets Bradley spread him out on the bed and look his fill, lets Bradley discover that his nipples are pretty much wired on the same circuit as his cock, that it turns him on when Bradley sniffs at him – even if he pulls faces in a few spots – and uses his body weight to pin Colin to the mattress.

'Get up here,' Colin says once they are both a bit breathless, both aching hard and leaking slick. 'Sit on my – yeah, like that.'

He reaches up to help Bradley guide his cock into his mouth, lets the warm, happy weight of it settle on his tongue before he begins sucking in earnest. Bradley bares his teeth and cries out, 'Holy mother of – fuck!' before pitching forward, gripping Colin's headboard. 

Colin takes the opportunity to pull off, spit on his fingers and rasp, 'Can I?'

'Can you…?' Bradley peers down, his prick jumping in Colin's grasp. 'Yes. God yes you little – _ohhhh._ '

Colin squeezes the base of Bradley's cock as he works a finger into him, twisting his wrist until he's got that silky, spongy spot pulsing under his fingertip. Bradley bucks his hips, trying to fuck into Colin's fist, and Colin's finger slips out. Bradley curses.

Colin strokes his hole, kisses the side of his cock. 'Hold still,' he says. Then, 'This'll be better with lube. Hang on.'

'No!' Bradley says, voice strained. 'Don't stop. It's fine like that. I do it all the – here.' 

He straightens up, clears his throat and spits into his palm; then he lifts up and reaches around behind himself. His fingers find Colin's and together they spread the moisture where it's needed. Or rather, Bradley does. Colin is mostly along for the ride, brain still looping over the thought of Bradley wanking with his spit-slicked fingers shoved up his arse.

He snaps out of it when Bradley shifts his arse, whines, 'Cols, come _on_ ' and nudges his cockhead back against Colin's lips.

Smiling, Colin takes him in – _takes_ him – claims him with mouth and fingers and their combined cumin-coriander-garlic spit. 

Bradley tries to pull back when he starts to come, but Colin holds him firmly in place, rubs his prostate gently and keeps swallowing until Bradley's shaking with it, the muscles in his arms and thighs trembling. Colin releases him then, reaches up to soothe his arms, saying, 'Ssh, c'mere.' Bradley topples off, groaning, and Colin follows him over, stretching out on his side.

He laughs at the dazed expression on Bradley's face, kisses his forehead. Figuring Bradley's well past useless, Colin curls into his side, taking his own cock in hand and working it with slow strokes, rubbing the head against the firm ridge of Bradley's hipbone.

It’s all going nice and easy, until… 

'What _are_ you doing Colin? No, stop. Don't you dare come like that. I thought you wanted to – '

'Yeah, but you were shagged out. So.'

'I wasn't – Christ, give a man a minute to catch his breath, will you? We haven’t all been spending our spare time leaping over park benches and swinging from trees, but you're mad if you think we're stopping here.' 

Bradley interrupts his rant, all delivered from flat on his back, to flop an arm in Colin's direction, prodding at him. 'Why don’t you make yourself useful and go and fetch the lube now, cause I've seen your freakish donkey cock, Cols. I'm not taking _that_ without about a pint of the good stuff.'

Bradley is still muttering to himself as Colin rolls off the bed and heads for the en suite. 

'Shagged out – no one's ever seen me shagged out, certainly not you. Don't know who you've been sleeping with if you think this is what shagged out looks like, but it's got to stop, 'cause I'm here now, and I've got Excalibur. I am totally un-shaggable. Um, un-shag-outable? No, that doesn't work.

'Invincible!' he cries, startling Colin as he switches on the light. 'Unstoppable. And the pair of us, mate? Epic, guaranteed.'

Colin grins to himself in the mirror as he fetches the lube, the condoms he'd bought only yesterday. As usual, Bradley has handed Colin the way forward without even realising. 

He's not sure about invincible, but wherever they've been, wherever they're headed, as long as they keep their story going… 

They really _are_ unstoppable.

**~ * ~**

**Author's Note:**

> Songs referenced in the story:
> 
> 'The Prayer' by Bloc Party, the lyrics of which inspired the titles.
> 
> 'Prince Charming' by Adam and the Ants
> 
> 'Brothers On A Hotel Bed' by Death Cab for Cutie
> 
> 'Bernadette' by the Four Tops


End file.
